Page 16 of The Scarlet Spy (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #3)

Chapter Sixteen

S ofia stifled a yawn and tried to pay attention to the visiting professor from the University of Rome, an expert on classical architecture. Lady Wilberton had arranged the special soiree—a scholarly lecture, followed by an early evening supper—at the last moment. And though Sofia would have preferred an evening of rest after the tempestuous events of the last twenty-four hours, she had accepted the invitation after learning that the Duke of Sterling would also be present.

She had grabbed a few hours of sleep during the afternoon after writing up an urgent report for both Lynsley and Marco. With the information in hand, the marquess could set his agents to investigating the companies mentioned in the snuffbox list, while Marco could take a closer look at their warehouses.

As for her own efforts to further the mission, she had sent off a scented missive to De Winton, begging forgiveness for her behavior. Hopefully the man was as susceptible to flattery as she imagined he was. The appeal to his vanity ought to get her back in his good graces—she had all but begged him to take her for a drive in the Park at his convenience.

In person, Sofia meant to press her desire to attend the next meeting of the keyholders. She did not intend to take no for an answer. Though now, more than ever, the thought of him touching her intimately sent a shiver of revulsion spiraling through her core.

As opposed to the memory of Osborne’s caresses, which brought a rush of color to her cheeks.

“It is rather warm in here,” murmured Miss Pennington-Price with a wave of her fan. “Let us hope the professor does not go on to discuss the reign of Marcus Aurelius.”

Sofia smiled, but the flutter of a breeze stirred yet another warning in her head. She must use all of her considerable training in mental discipline to keep her mind on her mission, not on Osborne. Or what had occurred between them last night.

Focus. The Academy yoga instructor had taught her the art of channeling her energy to a single purpose.

Her gaze sought Sterling, who was seated in the front row of chairs, next to the hostess. The duke was the reason she was here. She was hoping that he might help her follow up on a hunch that had occurred to her earlier that afternoon.

“And with that,” announced the professor. “I shall conclude my thoughts on the design principles handed down to us by the ancient Romans. If anyone has questions, I shall be happy to answer them?—”

“Over refreshments,” finished Lady Wilberton in a stentorian voice that would have done Caesar proud. “I am sure you would welcome some tea or sherry. As would the audience.”

“Thank goodness.” Miss Pennington-Price rose, and before Sofia could demur, linked arms and led the way to the main drawing room, where a cold collation and a selection of beverages had been laid out for the guests.

“I must say, I do not agree with his assessment of the Coliseum’s proportions,” continued Miss Pennington-Price. “I have studied the measurements made by Brighton on his visit in 1763, and have my own ideas on the matter.”

“I’m sure the professor would be delighted to hear them,” said Sofia as she nibbled on a bit of shaved ham.

Thus encouraged, the spinster headed off with a determined step toward the tea table, leaving Sofia free to begin making her way across the room. Sterling was standing by the display of architectural engravings, having what looked to be a spirited discussion with Reverand Tilden.

Sofia was slowed by the demand to exchange pleasantries with several of her new acquaintances. She turned away from Sir Pierson to find the duke looking at her rather oddly.

Catching her gaze, he made a wry face and came to bow over her hand. “Do forgive me for staring. It’s just that. . . well, you remind me of someone.”

Sofia felt a bit guilty on regarding his pinched expression. Was she stirring up memories of old conflicts, old regrets?“I do hope it is not an unpleasant recollection,” she said gently. The last thing she wished was to cause him pain. But duty was duty.

As Sterling looked away, she thought she detected a slight sag of his shoulders. His voice was suspiciously muffled. “No, no. Not at all.”

It was, of course, absurd for a nameless orphan to feel a welling of sympathy for a wealthy duke. He had every luxury, every privilege that money could buy, while she had nothing but her wits, her weapons and her will to complete her mission.

And yet, she did.

But aware that personal musing must yield to pragmatism, she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Might we take a stroll to a less crowded corner of the room?” she asked. Loath though she was to speak of his grandson, she had several important queries concerning Lord Robert’s last days. Only the duke might have the information she sought.

“You had mentioned that you would be willing to answer any questions I might have,” she began.

His lined face wreathed in a kindly smile. “With pleasure, contessa.”

She repressed a sigh, knowing it would be anything but pleasurable. “I was wondering whether you know anything about an antique shop on Bond Street, owned by a Mr. Andover.” No mention of it had appeared in the young man’s diary, but she was acting on intuition. “Was it, perchance, a place that your grandson frequented?”

He fixed her with a searching look. “Why do you ask”

Sofia had anticipated his reaction. Coming from a veritable stranger, the interest in the young man’s personal habits must appear odd at best. The reply she gave must be compelling—something that would strike a chord with his desire for justice, yet not give away too much.

Truth and lies. Osborne seemed to think she was good at twining the two.

Sofia hoped he was right.

Drawing the duke deeper into the privacy of an alcoved display of Roman artifacts, she allowed a small sigh, “I had a friend—a good friend—in Venice who also died of drugs while in the company of several Englishmen.” She hesitated, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “I know this may sound melodramatic, but I have reason to suspect foul play.”

The duke paled. “Does Lord Lynsley know of your concern?”

“Yes, he does,” she admitted.

He took down one of the leatherbound books and pretended to study the pages. “Don’t you think you should leave the matter to him?”

Sofia was ready for the objection. “His government duties are most pressing at the moment, leaving him little time to pursue any leads. And besides, he cannot take any official action unless there is solid evidence of a crime.”

“Your courage is commendable, contessa. But have you any idea how dangerous it might be for you to go around asking such questions? A lady ought not take such risks.”

“I assure you, sir, I have no intention of taking any risks. All I want to do is gather a few facts before going back to the marquess.”

Sterling thought for a moment before asking, “What about Osborne? Have you spoken to him about this?”

The question was one she didn’t expect. “N—no.” Drawing a quick breath, she added, “Why would I?”

“I am aware that many people consider him naught but a charming fribble, but I’ve heard from those I trust that he’s a good man in a pinch. A fellow who has substance as well as style.”

“As you say, sir, it is best to keep this quiet. The fewer people who are aware of my suspicions, the better. There is really no need to involve Osborne.”

“I suppose you are right,” muttered Sterling, but he did not look entirely convinced.

Seeing he was about to speak again, Sofia raised her eyes, knowing full well that the nearby candelabra would reflect the beads of moisture clinging to her lashes. Given the recent events, it was not all that difficult to summon a show of emotion. “Please, Your Grace. I would be very grateful for your help.”

The duke coughed and hemmed. “Dash it all, please don’t cry, Sofia. Of course I want to help. But not if there’s a chance you could be hurt.”

“I won’t do anything rash,” she promised. She rather doubted the duke would agree with her definition of the word, but that was splitting hairs.

He hesitated, but a last little flutter moved him to speech. “I have your pledge to be discreet?”

She crossed her heart.

“Very well, then.” He expelled a breath. “In fact, Robert seemed to have taken a special interest in Andover’s gallery during the weeks before his death. And though he had never really expressed interest in Eastern artifacts before, he mentioned making several expensive purchases. A brass statue of some elephant-headed god from India and a Byzantine icon on wood of St. George and the Dragon.”

“Do you still have the items?” asked Sofia.

He nodded.

“Might I come around to see them on the morrow?”

“Yes. If you think it would be of help.”

“I do,” she replied.

Osborne sealed the letter and tossed it onto the post tray. It was likely a waste of ink. Heaven only knew if or when it would ever reach Italy and find its way into the hands of Lord Kirtland.

Damn Julian. Once again he cursed his friend for being so bloody laconic. One would think a man would have more to say about his nuptials than a few laconic lines He would wax poetic about his bride, detailing her looks, her charms. Everything about her.

All Osborne knew about the new Countess of Kirtland was that her given name was Siena. He wasn’t even sure if she was the sultry courtesan who had sported the tattoo of a hawk above her left breast. Aside from the newlyweds, only Lynsley might know for sure. And the marquess had made it clear that he was not going to be forthcoming with that bit of information.

If he was to unlock the secrets of this mystery, he was going to have to do it on his own.

Staring at the banked coals, Osborne picked up his pen knife and spun it in his fingers. His friend Kirtland was a decorated war hero, an expert in military intelligence. Whatever intrigue he had been caught up in, the earl had managed to work it for himself.

His grip tightened on the sliver of steel. In truth, he had laughed off Julian’s initial suspicions. Now, the feeling of dueling with naught but specters and shadows was not nearly so humorous.

Bloody hell. Though he might not be as experienced as Kirtland in the art of clandestine activities, he could make a stab at learning what Sofia was up to. She and Lynsley might think him a lackwit, but he had no intention of playing the fool. For the moment, he would heed the marquess’s warning and appear to keep his distance. In truth, he would simply slip into the shadows.

It was not merely a matter of pride, but also of personal honor. Sofia might insist that their lovemaking had changed nothing between them. But the look in her eyes during that fleeting intimacy, the thrumming need in every fiber of her body, had belied her words.

Trust. She had trusted in him, a fact that caused his throat to constrict. He was not vain enough to imagine she had fallen head over heels in love with him. And yet, she must feel something, if only the mysterious force that seemed to draw them together from the very first.

He felt it too. How to describe the powerful attraction? His gaze skimmed over the orderly rows of leatherbound books on the shelves. It seemed to elude both prose and poetry. Was that love—a jumble of conflicting, confounding emotions? Having no experience in aught but lighthearted dalliances, he didn’t dare hazard a guess.

All he knew was that he couldn’t just walk away, leaving Sofia—or whoever she was—to face danger on her own. Her courage and convictions were unquestioned, but he had rigid notions of honor as well.

Up to now, she had dictated the rules of engagement. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands.

Tossing the knife back on the blotter, Osborne took up his gloves, hat, and walking stick and turned for the door.

Growing more impatient by the hour, Sofia passed much of the morning watching the clock, silently cursing the silly strictures of Society which prevented her from paying a call on Sterling until well after noon. The waiting set her nerves on edge, as she was forced to mull over the situation with the duke. She didn’t like deceiving him, but she simply could not reveal her real identity or her real mission. With luck, Lynsley would be able to tell him the truth at some point in the future.

For now, he would have to be kept in the dark.

Like Osborne.

She drew her shawl a bit tighter around her shoulders. She had been relieved when he had made no objection to her note canceling their engagements for the rest of the week. The Antiquity lecture, a poetry reading at the Literary Ladies Club, a meeting with her mantua maker . . . the list of excuses were all perfectly legitimate. Yet a small part of her was disappointed that he had accepted the rebuff without argument.

But perhaps one ended a casual dalliance by pretending it had never happened. After all, Osborne was the expert on such protocol. And she should be grateful for it. Neither of them wanted any emotional entanglements?—

“Your carriage is ready, milady.”

Steeling her spine, Sofia gathered her reticule and marched for the door.

Mounting the marble stairs of the duke’s regal townhouse on Grosvenor Square, Sofia felt more like an impostor than ever. The knocker—a lion’s head crafted out of gleaming silver—seemed to be looking down its nose at seeing a guttersnipe about to enter the hallowed halls it guarded.

Lifting her chin, Sofia grasped the ring and rapped on the polished wood. She might not be a princess or a duchess, but she was a Merlin, and she would hold her head high.

Sterling appeared in the entrance hall before the servant could send in her calling card. “Come in, come in, contessa.” Waving away the butler, the duke offered his arm and led her down a long parquet corridor toward the rear of the house.

“I’ve brought the items you wish to see into one of the galleries.”He indicated a large writing table set between the display cabinets.

“Thank you.” Setting her reticule aside, Sofia studied the antiques for a moment or two before choosing the icon and lifting it to the light. The wood panel was thick and blackened with age, though the paint pigments and gilding still had a luminous richness. St. George and the Dragon. Murmuring a silent prayer that she, too, could slay an evil threat, she carefully turned it over.

Her fingers ran over the rough oak, feeling along the edges of the framing. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for. Perhaps Lord Robert had merely been drawn by the art?—

Snick.

A tiny lever moved, revealing a small compartment. Inside was a piece of folded paper. Edging a step closer to the leaded glass, Sofia turned slightly, just enough to hide her hand from the duke’s brooding gaze.

“Anything of import?” he asked, noting her movement.

It took only an instant to slip the hidden paper into her sleeve. She had decided beforehand to keep any discovery to herself. Not only would the knowledge distress the duke, but it might also put him in danger.

“There is a crack in the edge, but on closer inspection, it looks to be quite old.” Sofia set the icon back on the table and reached for the statue.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Sterling wandered to the far end of the casement and stared out at the gardens.

An examination of the carved bronze revealed a similar hiding place. It was empty, but Sofia was satisfied that her hunch was correct. Robert had figured out how messages were passed from abroad to the London group of conspirators. It was a deviously clever plan. Not only was it safe from prying eyes, but the means of transport was yet another way of making money. Andover would receive a handsome cut for his cooperation, but still, the business in expensive antiquities likely turned a profit for everyone involved.

“Have you found any clues?” asked Sterling.

Sofia shook her head. “Not that I can say. But thank you for the chance to see the items for myself.”

Sterling nodded, then indicated the glass display cases. “Now that you are here, would you care to see my coin collection?”

“Very much so, sir.”

Sofia did not have to feign her enthusiasm as they made their way around the perimeter of the room. “It is a most fascinating collection, Your Grace.” The duke’s knowledgeable commentary and his obvious love of the subject had excited her own interest. Each face did possess its own individual character, each expression told a poignant story about the artist as well as the person portrayed in precious metal or clay.

For a moment she forgot about her own dilemmas while taking in the history of the past centuries. “Have you special friends among all these faces, sir?” she asked, staring in fascination at a set of golden sesterce depicting Julius Caesar.

The duke led her through an alcove, which opened into an adjoining room. Like the larger gallery, it was paneled in sherry-colored wood and lit by a bank of large leaded windows. The afternoon light warmed the acanthus leaf carvings and beaded molding to a mellow glow.

“There is just one case of coins in here—my personal favorites,” said Sterling. “The rest of the art is simply family portraits.” His eyes strayed to the gilt framed paintings on the far wall. “But I prefer this space to the formal splendor of the main library or drawing room. It is here that I come here to read. And to reflect.”

“I can understand why.”Sofia touched her hand to the decorative detailing. A tip of the wooden leaf had been broken off, but judging by the smooth patina of the grain, the damage must have occurred a long time ago. “Even to a stranger, it feels welcoming.” She hesitated, loath to intrude on his privacy. Yet a sidelong glance at his lined face prompted her to add, “You must have many fond memories to think about.”

He, too, reached out to finger the chipped leaf. “My daughter broke that with her brother’s cricket ball when she was ten. Her governess paddled her for the offense but she said it was worth every stroke to have bowled over the lad at his own game.”

Sofia smiled. “It sounds like she had an arm to be reckoned with.”

“Aye.” As a slow sigh leaked from his lips, the duke seemed to deflate before her eyes. “And a will to match. She did not back down from a challenge. A fault, I fear, she learned from me.”

“I think we all have flaws which we would alter, if that were possible,” said Sofia. “But we are human, sir, and far from perfect.”

“You are most kind to offer such words of comfort. But looking back from the vantage point of my advanced years, it is the flaws that take on a sharper focus.” He gave a wry grimace. “Overweening pride, to begin with. Be glad you have no such sin to be ashamed of.”

Lies and deceptions. Sofia was not proud of the fact that duty demanded she use false pretenses to cultivate a friendship with the duke. “I, too, have things I regret.”

“None so unforgivable as hubris.”

Avoiding his eye, she looked around the room again. “Let us not dwell on the dark side of life when there is so much light and beauty here. I should like very much to see more of the things that are dear to your heart.”

“Yes, I am surrounded by the things I love,” he murmured. “Come, let me show you.” He offered his arm and crossed the carpet. “This is Robert, my grandson, done when he was ten.”

The painting showed a winsome young boy mounted on a large pony. Though his boots did not quite reach the stirrups, he gripped the reins with a dogged determination.

“I see a great deal of you in him,” she said after studying the shape of the boyish chin and the squint of the sky blue eyes.

“My son George’s child,” he mused. “He was a young man of passion and principle. I find it impossible to believe he frittered away his talents in drugs and dissipation.”

Sofia remained silent.

Sterling sighed, then moved on past several other portraits—twin granddaughters frolicking with a pair of pug puppies, a young man in his Eton robes with a cricket bat on his shoulder. Stepping around a set of Tudor bookcases, he led Sofia to another part of the room.

“And here are my children. John is my eldest son and heir.” His gesture indicated a solemn face, its austere planes softened only slightly by a fringe of fair hair. “Next to him you see George, the adventurer of the family, who is currently the Governor-General in Jaipur.”

The duke shuffled a step. “And Elizabeth . . .”

The rest of his words were drowned out by a sudden roaring in her ears. Overcome by a wave of dizziness, Sofia swayed slightly, feeling like a thousand little daggerpoints were prickling against her flesh. Then there was only a chilling numbness, save for the hammering of her heart against her chest

“Sofia?”

She was only dimly aware of the duke’s agitated voice.

“Sofia!” He steadied her buckling knees. “Dear Lord, what’s wrong? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

Though still in the grip of shock, she managed to loosen her tongue enough to speak. “Forgive me, I—I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel a trifle unwell.”

The duke helped her to the sofa and rang for a servant. “Fetch a maid and some hartshorn, Givens,” he called to the footman who answered the summons. “Quickly!”

“Thank you, but I don’t need any vinaigrette, Your Grace. It was just a fleeting faintness. The moment has passed.”

“Don’t try to rise yet.” He pressed her shoulders back against the damask pillows, then rose and threw open the casement. “Perhaps a breath of fresh air will help.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It is a trifle warm in here.”

Sterling returned with a glass of sherry. “Drink this,” he commanded, thrusting the glass into her hands.

Sofia sipped gratefully at the fortified wine. Falling into a dead faint only happened in the pages of a horrid novel. She was not a peagoose heroine but a full-fledged Merlin.

And yet the plot was beginning to rival the gothic twists and turns of Mrs. Radcliffe’s wildly popular books. A mysterious locket, a foundling child, a wealthy duke . . .

A kindly grandfather?

“Feeling better, my dear?”

“Yes, much,” she lied.

“Perhaps I should summon a physician. You are still looking awfully pale.”

“Please, there is really no need for that. I am merely overtired. I fear I am still not quite accustomed to the late hours of London life.” Taking a deep breath, she rose and smoothed out her skirts. “Again, I apologize for such a silly show of weakness. I shall take my leave and return home for the rest of the day. A hot posset and a nap are the only medicines I require.”

“The swirl of London Society can be dizzying, even to those accustomed to a fast pace.” His lined face wreathed in concern as he moved to offer the support of his arm. “You must promise me that you will cancel any social engagements for the evening, else I shall be forced to come stand guard on your doorstep.”

“You have my word of honor, Your Grace. The only activities I will indulge in are sipping hot chocolate and reading.”

“I am relieved to hear it. Still, perhaps I ought to escort you home, just to make sure?—”

“No!” The last thing Sofia wanted was to prolong the encounter. “That is, my carriage is right outside, sir. I feel badly enough about my show of weakness without putting you to any further trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all. As if you should feel compelled to apologize—good heavens, my dear, you are a woman, not a warrior.” However, sensing her agitation, Sterling relented with a sigh. “But I shall respect your wishes.”

Accepting his arm, Sofia somehow managed to maintain her poise and make polite conversation, though she had no recollection of passing from the duke’s private study to the entrance hall.

It wasn’t until the carriage door fell closed and the wheels started over the cobbles that she allowed her resolve to waver.

“God help me,” she groaned, pressing a fist to her lips. Everything about this mission seemed to be spinning out of control.

But after a moment or two, she blinked the tears from her lashes. She couldn’t look for divine intervention.

A Merlin must overcome adversity on her own.